Chapter 8
EIGHT
I’m relieved, but he can’t know that
MICAH
Davis buzzes to let me know the food’s arrived. “Want me to bring it up, Mr. Vale?” he asks over the phone.
I glance at the time. He’s been on shift all day. “Nah, I’ve got it. Take a break, Davis.”
I look over at Sophie on the sofa, bent over a small notebook she pulled from the front pocket of her bag earlier, her pen moving quietly across the page.
“Hey, Soph,” I say. “I’m gonna go grab the food. I’ll be right back.”
She looks up, offering a soft, gentle smile. “Do you need help?”
“No, I’ve got it.” I grin. “Just stay comfortable.” I toss her a wink, and she rolls her eyes.
Down in the lobby, Davis is sorting through a mountain of delivery bags. He looks up. “All of this is yours?”
“She said anything was fine,” I mutter, gathering it all in one ridiculous, overloaded trip. “Davis, did you eat?”
“Yes, I did, sir.” He answers, but I don’t believe it.
I take out two burgers and fries and put them on his desk. “Make sure to take care of yourself.”
He just smiles and nods. I love Davis. He respects my peace, doesn’t ask questions, and always maintains my boundaries.
By the time I step back into my apartment, the place is quiet. I set the bags on the kitchen island and turn—and there she is.
Sophie’s asleep on the sofa, curled on her side, one arm tucked under her cheek, the other clinging to a throw pillow and that notebook she was writing in.
I’m tempted to take a look at what she’d been writing, but decide not to cross any lines with her.
Her chest rises in slow, even breaths. She looks peaceful.
It’s a look I’ve never seen on her before.
Usually, she’s alert and tense. But right now, it’s like her body finally gave in to rest.
Something else catches my eye—something I’ve noticed before. The right sleeve of her shirt is pushed up to her elbow, but the left one always stays pulled all the way down. Even when she fidgets or adjusts it, it never rolls up.
I should wake her. The food’s here and I know she’s been hungry.
But I can’t bring myself to do it. She looks like she needs this rest. Instead, I grab a throw blanket from the armrest and carefully drape it over her.
It’s gotten chilly, and she’s curled up tight like she’s cold.
For a second, I consider carrying her to the bed so she can sleep better, but knowing her, she’d probably freak out and get all jumpy if she woke up somewhere unfamiliar.
Just as I settle onto one of the kitchen stools, I hear the elevator. I don’t need to check—I already know who it is.
Grant walks in first, loud as always, with Wyatt right behind him. They both stop short when they spot Sophie asleep on my couch. Grant starts silently mouthing, what the fuck, his whole face lighting up. He starts hopping like an idiot.
I point sharply toward the guest room and gesture for silence. “Go,” I mouth.
They obey—barely—and go quietly toward the room.
Once the door’s closed behind us, I glare at them. “Shut up.”
“You have that girl asleep on your couch, and you're telling us to shut up?” Wyatt says.
“Her name is Sophie,” I correct like my mouth has a mind of its own.
“Oh my God. You’re actually in love with her,” Grant adds, grinning like he just won a bet.
“I’m not in love with her,” I mutter. “I think she had a shitty day. So I offered her food but she fell asleep.”
“You brought her to your house because you thought she had a shitty day and then you bought her food?” Wyatt says flatly. “Never knew you were such an empath.”
“And then you covered her with a blanket,” Grant adds, as he goes to lie on the bed like it’s his. “That’s some domestic shit, man.”
“Fuck off,” I grumble, but I don’t deny it.
Grant laughs. “I’m starting to feel like I should crash at my own place more often. Give these lovebirds some space.”
“You could’ve done that from day one,” I shoot back. “Why are you always here anyway?”
Grant shrugs. “I told you. The view’s better from here.”
“Can we go and chill in your bedroom? Why is it so cold here?” Wyatt adds.
“My room is off-limits,” I warn them as Wyatt starts eyeing the hallway. “It’s my sanctuary. No one pollutes the air in there but me.”
Grant snorts. “Yeah, yeah. You can act all tough now, but the second Soph wakes up and asks for water, you’re gonna be halfway to Fiji bottling it from a spring.”
I don’t answer. I just lean back against the wall, arms crossed, staring at the closed door to the living room.
“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say quietly. “She’s just in my head. All the time.”
Grant starts humming the song “L-O–V-E”. Asshole.
SOPHIE
I’m floating. That's the only way to describe it—like lying on a soft cloud, warm and weightless. Something cozy is draped over me, and when I shift slightly, the fabric rustles. The cloud dissolves as my eyes adjust. Disoriented, I push myself up. Where am I?
A soft throw blanket slips off my shoulder. That’s when it hits me. Micah’s penthouse. I must’ve fallen asleep. I sit up, trying to recall what happened. The parole letter. Carter. The ride. Food.
Food. Oh God. Micah was going down to grab the food.
Behind me, I hear the faint tearing of paper. “Sorry,” Micah says. “Did I wake you?”
I turn and see him across the room, unwrapping a burger. “I wanted to wait until you woke up, but I was getting kind of hungry.”
I stare at him in horror. “What time is it?”
“A little after eight. You’ve been out for a while. You must’ve been exhausted.”
I shoot up. “I have work at the cafe. My shift—shit—I was supposed to be there at six.”
I scramble for my bag and shoes, panic surging through me.
“Hey, hey, slow down,” Micah says, stepping in front of me. “You need to eat something.”
Why is this guy so obsessed with me eating?
“You should’ve woken me up,” I snap. “I can’t lose this job, Micah.”
He frowns but doesn’t budge. “You were out cold. Clearly exhausted. I wasn’t going to wake you.”
“I’m sorry,” I mutter, breath shaky, as I grab my things and walk towards the elevator. “I’m just—this is bad. I can’t afford to screw up right now.”
He walks over, then reaches out and catches my arm—not harshly, but enough to stop me.
Then he pulls out his phone, finds a contact, and waits. “Marianne. Hey, this is Micah. Can you call Boston Brews—it’s the cafe next to The Haven. One of their employees missed her shift tonight. Can you smooth things over, make sure she doesn’t get fired? Do whatever it takes. Thanks.”
He hangs up and turns back to me. “It's going to be fine. Sit. Eat. Please.”
I don't move. “You can't just do that.”
Micah blinks. “Do what? Fix it?”
“Make a call.” My voice comes out steadier than I feel. “One call and it's all just—handled. Like it never happened. Like I never have to deal with any consequences.”
“Would you rather get fired?”
“That's not the point.” I set my bag down because my hands are shaking and I don't want him to see that.
“You don't even understand what you just did.
I worked really hard to get that job. I showed up every single shift.
I covered for people. And now someone you have on speed dial is going to call them and smooth things over, and I'll get to keep my job—but it won't be because of anything I did. It'll be because of you.”
Micah opens his mouth.
“And you didn't even ask me.” My voice cracks slightly on it. “You just did it.”
Silence. He doesn't have an answer for that—I can see it, just a small tightening around his jaw.
“You're right,” he says finally. “I should've asked. I’m sorry.”
It doesn't fix it. But I sit down anyway, because I'm starving, and I don't have the energy to stay angry at someone who is, frustratingly, trying.
“I can take care of myself, Micah,” I add. I am relieved, but he can’t know that.
“I’m sure you can, Sophie.” His voice is calm.
The food spread across the counter is absurd. Sushi rolls, two pizza boxes, three different kinds of burgers, fries in paper cups, and little plastic containers of dipping sauces. I stare at it all with wide eyes, laughing as Micah takes a huge bite of a burger like it’s completely normal.
“You ordered all this?”
He shrugs, mouth full. “You said anything’s fine, so I got everything.”
I can’t stop smiling. The weight I’ve been carrying all day feels lighter now. “This is ridiculous.”
“Grant and Wyatt came by earlier and stole some,” he adds, reaching for a slice of pizza. “I tried to keep the rest safe for us.”
We eat and talk casually—about classes, food, our majors. I feel normal. Comfortable. I don’t feel any urgency in my chest. I’d almost forgotten what this feels like.
After finishing half a burger and a couple pieces of sushi, I lean back and sigh.
“That nap earlier was probably the best sleep I’ve had in my entire life.
Your couch is more comfortable than any bed I’ve ever owned.
” Then, more apologetically, “I’m sorry I snapped earlier. I can get cranky after a nap.”
“No worries. I get that.” Micah gives me a look. “And you slept like a rock.”
“I really appreciate all of this. You have no idea. I’ve been stressing about a midterm for my American Government class. I was worried I wouldn’t have time to study, but now that I accidentally missed my shift…”
“You’re welcome?” he grins.
I laugh and glance at the time. “On that note, I should probably get going. I should use the night to study.”
He leans on the counter, eyeing me. “You can study here.”
I blink. “Here?”
“Yeah. Use the island. Wyatt studies here all the time—he says it helps him focus. Though honestly, it might just be an excuse to hang out with us.”
I look at the clean marble surface, my nearly empty cup of soda, and think about the thirty-minute trip back to my apartment. How I’ll have to pack up again, settle in, make tea, find my notes.
But here? I could just start.
“You want to study with me?” I ask.
He nods, smiling. “Sure.”
MICAH